Little Blue
by LuminaCarina
Summary: (Harry discovers magic rather sooner than he was meant to. It gets a lot more complicated.) AU
1. Chapter 1: the Discovery

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter**

(Harry discovers magic rather sooner than he was meant to. It gets a lot more complicated.)

#

Harry was nine years old when he first did it: he turned his teacher's wig blue.

He got in so much trouble for it, and everyone – his Aunt, his Uncle, the Principal – was angry at him for doing it, even if they couldn't prove how he did it. But who had ever cared about silly things like proof? It was enough that he had an awful reputation (apparently, having absentee parents was a crime now) and that his Aunt was in a bad mood that day.

Curled up in his cupboard, Harry seethed. He hadn't meant to do it, honest! He didn't even know how to do it! But of course, someone had to be blamed for the incident. After a while though, the anger faded, and it left misery in its wake. What was the point of it all? They blamed him for all the suspicious happenings, all the time. If only he had actually done it – that way it wouldn't sting so badly.

''I wish I could turn somebody's hair blue for real,'' he mumbled to himself quietly. ''That way, no one would dare to yell at me.''

But of course, that was impossible. There was not a snowball's chance in hell of something like that happening. Right?

:

The next incident was only weeks later: he shrunk the nasty jumper Aunt Petunia was trying to force on him.

Thankfully, she was having a good day, what with Uncle Vernon's raise and the sudden blooming of her geraniums, so she decided that the jumper had shrunk in the wash and just sent him on his way. Harry was quick to take advantage of his good fortune and scrambled away before she could change her mind and dole out punishment.

Hidden in the kitchen, breathlessly shuddering with mixed fear and excitement, Harry allowed himself a moment of incredulity. It can't have happened, it can't have! Such things surely weren't real. And yet… and yet. The treatment of his Aunt and Uncle – a mixture of anxiety, anger and fear – is so much more understandable now. He can do impossible things! He can shrink jumpers!

Alright, so it wasn't the most impressive of magic, but it was something. It was a start. And if he could shrink jumpers and turn people's wigs blue, then what else could he do?

Frowning in concentration, Harry admitted to himself that he had no idea how to go about this. It was time, he shivered, to visit the library.

:

Harry had never cared for books, and the library in particular was a place he avoided. The librarian disliked him fiercely, and being subjected to Madam Salisbury's hawk-eyed stare was more than a little scary, even if you were nice and quiet and obeyed all the rules.

She didn't bother to reply to his hesitant greeting, merely pointing him the direction of phantasy books when he asked about magic.

Phantasy, Harry found out, was a very complicated literature genre. He couldn't take books out of the library, let alone take them home, which meant that he had a limited time frame to educate himself on all things magical. Sadly, the books proved to be utterly unhelpful in this endeavour.

They all claimed different things, at places even contradicting themselves, and oftentimes they were so vague and confusing it left him wondering what they were even trying to say. What did inner peace even mean, and what did souls have to do with anything?

It took him several more trips to the library, which he spent being thoroughly scrutinised by Madam Salisbury, before he decided on what rules to follow and what not to. For example, while the Lord of the Rings had featured incredible magic from what he could gleam from the first book, Harry doubted it applied to him. For one, he had already proven that magic could be used for the little things, unless, of course, the size of Dudley's old jumper was of universal importance.

No, what seemed the most genuine to him was magic as it was described in a rather gruesome and horror-filled book of fairy tales, magic which worked on the principle of exchange. Equal exchange, at that.

This principle explained why magic played such a bad role in most of the books: it needed sacrifice. The stronger the spell, the greater the sacrifice had to be. For big magic he would have to give up things important to him, such as pets or friends or even bits of himself. One of the characters in the book sacrificed her own sister for a binding spell that would last a lifetime, and while the sister had agreed and knowingly allowed it to happen, it was still awful.

There were, of course, the fairies, but they weren't human. It seemed to him that only human magic was costly. I also pleased him that all the evil curses could be broken with nice, simple things. But, well. That didn't ease his mind when it came to casting the curse. Not that he would curse someone, of course not! But maybe Dudley deserved a jinx…

It made him a bit horrified to wonder what he had already given up to turn that wig blue. It also put him in a pickle of sorts. If magic was evil like most books claimed, did that also mean he was also evil?

Head aching and deeply troubled, Harry retreated to his cupboard, hoping things would be clearer when he woke up.

:

Morning brought no relief.

His Aunt noticed something was wrong immediately upon seeing him staring forlornly at the half-empty carton of eggs, unaware that his share of bacon was being spirited away by his cousin, but she didn't care enough to ask about it. Dudley had whinged and teased, but a cuff around the head from his father had set him right. If there was one thing Vernon Dursley hated more that oddities, it was noise during breakfast.

Once he was packed off to school, Harry made an effort to pay attention to the material instead of something that might not be real. After all, he hadn't done a single magical thing since the jumper incident. Alas, history was not nearly interesting enough to occupy his thoughts for long, and soon he was back to agonising over his magic, if it could be called that.

:

''Oh honestly, child, you are far too young to have that look in your eyes!'' Madam Salisbury had scoffed at the sight of him when he came in some time later. ''The way you act, one would say you were thinking of wars instead of fiction!''

Harry lifted his head up, shocked to see the sharp-faced librarian looming over him, long, dark red fingernails tapping an impatient beat on the surface of the table.

''What is it that troubles you so?'' she demanded, primly seating herself opposite of him.

Harry stared at her blankly. What could he say? That he has magic? She would laugh him out of the library at best. At the subtle darkening of her face, he frantically sought out an answer. ''I…'' But what else could he say? Madam Salisbury was no fool; she would see right through any lie he might speak. Defeated, he settled on the truth. ''I'm a witch, and I might be evil.''

Madam Salisbury offered him a false smile. ''Child,'' she told him silkily, ''I have no tolerance for liars. This is a private library, and I have every right to bar entry to those I deem… unworthy.''

''I'm not lying!'' Harry righted himself from his slouch and glared. ''I don't lie! I wouldn't, not – not here.''

The librarian paused and took in the mixed anger and fear, the tense line of the shoulders, the trembling fingers clenched in a fist. ''If you are not lying,'' she said carefully, ''then you are speaking the truth as you know it.'' Now worried at his rebellious bristling, she continued on gently. ''There is no such thing as magic, child.''

Harry stood up. He had known it would be a mistake to say anything, and look, he was right. Madam Salisbury was the same as all other adults, just as close-minded and stupid. He should never said a thing. Without another word, he stormed out of the library.

Madam Salisbury, startled, watched as the boy ran away from her. He couldn't possibly believe such nonsense! …But why not? She worried her lip, somewhere between indignation and shame. Had she not been a little girl herself once? Had she not, in those days of youth and innocence, believed there was magic in the world?

She sighed and took the school bag the boy had forgotten, going back to work, sorting out all the books. She would have to apologise when he came back.

:

Harry, for his part, was fuming mad. What did Madam Salisbury think, just telling him that like he was a baby who didn't understand anything? He knew his magic was hard to believe, but it wasn't impossible.

Things happened all the time, things that were quite impossible by the knowledge of the time – rockets, for one. Had the telephone not been a mere fantasy not that long ago? And what about the automobile? Electricity? Things that defied logic happened all the time.

The next day, he got in trouble at school for not having his homework done. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that he would need to go to the library again to get his school bag. But he could procrastinate for a little while – at the very least, he could wait until the afternoon. Maybe Aunt Petunia wouldn't notice that he was sent back from school that way.

This meant that he couldn't go home until evening, because Aunt Petunia had been quite clear when she said he wasn't allowed to come back 'til he had found his bag. She wasn't about to get him a new one, after all.

Reluctantly dragging his feet, Harry went in the direction of the playground. It was too cold for there to be any other kids there, so he would have the place to himself. It was good that it was this cold, though. It meant that he would be able to go outside and spend time away from his house. He would get the opportunity to try and practice his magic.

Speaking of magic and training, could he not try some magic now? He was alone at the moment, so he could spare an hour. And if he had proof for Madam Salisbury, then she wouldn't be able to say magic wasn't real! Energised, Harry rushed onward, eager to one up the librarian.

:

It was chilly in the park, awfully so, despite the fact that winter was still a long way away. Still, it was better in the shade where the wind couldn't find him, hidden under the foliage of the still green trees. Harry threw his jacket on the ground and sat on it, before stilling.

How was he to go about this? While he understood magic followed certain rules, nowhere had there been actual instructions for using it. In all the books, the character's magic training was glossed over, with only obscure references to arcane practices of 'purifying one's soul', which was not helpful at all.

Maybe he should start with figuring out what he wanted to do. Hmm…

Casting his eye around, Harry caught sight of a dead leaves littering the ground. Picking one up, he hesitated. Wouldn't restoring a leaf be hard? He would basically be giving it life, and if what he thought he knew of magic was true, then the only life he could give was his own. He felt leery of giving away his life for something that might not work.

In that case, following that line of reason, would it not be easier to drain the life of a leaf? Putting the dried up leaf down, he plucked a healthy, new one from the nearby bush. It was soft and pliant, that yellowish shade of green only baby leaves had and he could almost imagine the life flowing through it.

How was he to do this… Maybe if he focused on the leaf? All the books seemed to emphasise concentration and the mind. Screwing his eyes shut, Harry tried to reach out to the leaf, to feel out what he could only visualise as a bloodstream filled with light.

But, it wasn't working, even after several minutes had passed. Either he wasn't focusing right, or there was something wrong with his technique. Glaring at the stubborn leaf, Harry tried to find the fault in his reasoning. It was a heathy leaf, young and alive. It should be easy for him to feel its life force: that much all the stories agreed on.

Frustrated and, to his embarrassment, with tears in his eyes, Harry tossed it at the ground with a huff. Maybe Madam Salisbury was right, maybe magic wasn't real and he was just that desperate to be special. A lump formed in his throat; maybe he had yelled at Madam Salisbury for nothing.

He can't have, he can't have! Harry had never been needlessly rude to anyone, and he always tried to be as well behaved as he could be. He was always trying to prove the Dursleys' opinions wrong. Snapping his fingers to work off the anxiety, he searched out the leaf that had given him so much trouble. And that's when he saw it.

The lovely green leaf was lying on the ground, surrounded by its dried up brethren. It looked so different from the brown leaves, but fundamentally it was the same as them. All the leaves lying on the ground were dead leaves, no matter their appearance. The moment he had plucked the leaf from the bush, he had killed it. Which meant that…

Quickly closing his eyes, Harry focused on the bush. Still not feeling the difference but unwilling to give up, he wrapped his fingers around one thin branch, seeking out its presence. He didn't find what he was looking for.

What he did find, though, was much greater than the bush.

There was… something… beneath him, roiling with something he instinctively shied away from, so forceful with its existence he could not believe he hadn't noticed it before. Panic clawed at his throat: to begin with, this thing was so alien and alive he felt himself tremble at the frightening sensations it created – as if someone were crackling static electricity inside of his bones.

Wrenching away with a gasp, he drew his hands to himself, and then doing the same with his feet when he noticed he had unconsciously been digging the heels of his shoes into the earth. That was… That had been…

Oh.

Had that been what magic felt like?

Feeling very small at the moment, shaken up by his experience, Harry stumbled to his feet. His teeth were buzzing. Clacking his jaw a few times to get rid of the feeling, he ran away on unsteady legs. He just wanted to go home.

:

As if his Aunt's wrath hadn't been enough, the teachers scowled at him the whole of the next day. He still didn't have his book bag, seeing as he'd forgotten to go get it after what happened in the park, and his bones still ached with the residue of the terrifying magic he had felt.

The truth of the matter was that he felt afraid. All this time he had hoped and wished for magic because it would make him different and strong and, as taken with the fanciful phantasies as he was, he hadn't given any thought to the possible dangers of it. Now that he knew what magic was like, he dearly regretted ever tapping into… whatever that had been.

''Mr Potter,'' his teacher called out, ''if you would please stay behind.''

Dudley sneered at him, gleefully telling his friends something and making Piers stick his tongue out at the bespectacled boy. Harry didn't wish to know what was being said of him – likely something cruel or nasty.

''You wanted to see me, Miss Rowan?'' he asked dully of the woman, eyeing her new wig, which was very obviously not blue.

The woman's lips thinned when she realised what had his attention, but she didn't try to ask him any awkward questions. She was of the opinion that, even if Harry had been the one to embarrass her so, the poor boy was as horrified by it as she was, and he had no idea how he could have possibly done it, so there was no use in digging into that any further. What was the point of beating a dead horse? she claimed.

''You've been acting oddly, Mr Potter. In the last few days exceptionally so. I have been… concerned.'' Her expression grew even tighter at this. Harry was by no means her favoured student – that would be Gordon – be she didn't buy into all the rumours his Aunt spread around either.

Harry shrugged lightly. ''It's nothing,'' he murmured, keeping his gaze on the floor. ''Just… things.''

Miss Rowan pinched the bridge of her nose. ''I need to know about these 'things', Mr Potter. As your teacher, I am responsible for you and it is my duty to ascertain your safety and well-being.'' Squinting at him exasperatedly, she huffed when she saw that the boy wasn't paying her any attention, drolly nodding along with her instead.

''Mr Potter!'' she squawked at him angrily. ''I am not playing games here. I will need to contact your guardians about this, because if something –''

Harry's head snapped to her. ''No, you can't do that!''

Miss Rowan pursed her lips. If the boy wanted to be listened to, then he first had to learn how to listen himself. Well, two could play this game. With a sigh, she went back to arranging the papers she had to grade. ''You're dismissed, Mr Potter. Do inform your guardian I wish to speak with them, or I'll be forced to call them instead.''

Defeated, somehow even more miserable than before, Harry slunk out of the classroom. Nothing was going his way lately.

:

Harry found his way back to Madam Salisbury's library. He debated not entering at the beginning, but he needed that bag, and he also needed to know more about magic if he wanted to protect himself from those things. Reluctantly, he creaked the door open.

Madam Salisbury's grey eyes were upon his face immediately. He floundered a bit, not at all comfortable in the oppressive silence but not wanting to be the one to break it. Finally, Madam Salisbury closed her book and waved him inside.

Perching herself on a chair across from him, Madam Salisbury started tapping her nails on the table, fixing him those eyes of hers. ''Child, I am sorry for the way I treated you when you last came here. It was inexcusable, and I deeply apologise.''

Uncertain what to say and shocked at the words coming out of Madam Salisbury's mouth, Harry settled for shrugging his shoulders. ''It's fine. I mean, I did say it badly, so I can understand how it would be taken the wrong way.''

Madam Salisbury nodded in agreement, but forged on with her apology. ''I may have also given impressions that I think poorly of yourself and your intelligence, and I want it known that I didn't mean any of those things. It was merely surprise and bitterness of old age that caught up with me.''

''You're not that old!'' Harry protested, before flushing and backtracking. ''I mean… You aren't…''

Madam Salisbury smiled, relaxing. ''I am over sixty years old, child, though I thank you for your kind words. They mean a lot to me.''

Harry blinked at the librarian. Over sixty…? Getting over it, he remembered his manners. ''Call me Harry, Madam Salisbury. I… I won't mind.''

''Well then, Harry. What were you saying about magic?''

:

After telling Madam Salisbury everything he had done so far, Harry felt much lighter. A great weight had dropped off his shoulders, and, in the middle of the library, those scary things underground seemed much less real than before.

His fear wasn't quelled though, because Madam Salisbury was still mulling over the new information. He worried she wouldn't believe him, and he doubted he had the courage to go and get her proof if she asked for it.

''Well,'' Madam started, ''it seems to me that all of your efforts so far had been fruitless. I'm quite certain this is because you have no actual knowledge; you went into this – if you will pardon my language – like a fool, and expected it to work out seamlessly.''

Harry blushed furiously. It was true that he hadn't ever sat down and made a plan, which, in retrospect, was terribly stupid of him. All it resulted in was frustration and fear so far.

''Take a biscuit, Harry.'' Madam pushed the tray closer to him when she saw his shame. ''And, ah where was I? Oh yes, the plan. What you need, Harry, is a plan. An actual plan that won't consist of improvisation. You have made progress, I assure you of that – we now know you can sense the life force, or magic, of other beings if you focus – but you have gone about it in a way I dislike.''

''I know, Madam.'' Harry told her sadly. There had been reported damage to the playground, and Harry was sure he was the cause of the scorch-marks on the ground. ''I'm sorry for the park, but –''

Madam rolled her eyes. ''Oh it isn't the park I worry about, you silly boy! You endangered yourself: that is what angers me!''

Thumping her fist on the table so hard the teacups rattled, Madam Salisbury pointed her finger at him, making him go cross-eyed in an effort to keep the poison green fingernail in his line of sight.

''You found something that could potentially be deadly, Harry, and instead of seeking help you kept it to yourself, even when it harmed you. Indeed, you gave no thought to your wounds, ignoring them and choosing to go on as usual. This is what makes me so mad, Harry, and I want you to promise never to do it again!''

Harry's jaw dropped open slightly. ''I can't, Madam! Magic –''

''I meant the reckless way you go about it.'' Madam Salisbury clarified. ''I'm willing to help – no objections, child – and I will veto anything I consider to be too dangerous. I won't stop your… magic… but I will be monitoring it. Is that alright?''

Harry thought it over. Madam was probably just humouring him – he doubted she believed him. However, it didn't seem like he had any other options. If he said no, Madam Salisbury might tell on him to Aunt Petunia, and if he said yes, then she would help him. It was a good deal, he supposed. Madam Salisbury was the librarian so she would know which books were good and which were nonsense, and since she was so scary no one would try to butt in when he came over. Everyone approved of a kid going to the library, didn't they?

''Alright, Madam Salisbury.'' He agreed. ''When will we start? And how will we start?''

:

Apparently, they started the following day, which meant that he had to face the proverbial dragon when he came back home.

Aunt Petunia was breathing fire when she saw him, screeching at him for getting in trouble. Grumbling, Harry concluded Miss Rowan had done as she told him she would and called his Aunt. How lovely.

''You stupid boy! You just have to embarrass me at every turn!'' Aunt Petunia ranted as she prepared dinner, periodically turning back to him and waving a ladle at him. ''You just wait 'til your Uncle gets home, then you'll get what you're due! Duddy-Dumms never does things like this!''

And on and on she went. Harry listened to her with only half an ear: while his Aunt could spew poison with the best of them, she would never raise a hand against anyone. Harry had learned to tune her out pretty early on in his life. It was his Uncle he had to watch out for, who, while never actually going through with his threats to beat him black and blue, liked to withhold food and pile chores on him.

''Eat your dinner now!'' Aunt Petunia hissed at him, putting a bowl of salad in front of him, along with a glass of cold milk. ''And then off to the cupboard with you!''

Blinking a bit, Harry sat at the table. Wasn't she just saying how he was to wait for Uncle Vernon to come back? Sneaking a look at his Aunt, Harry saw her mixing the chopped vegetables with more force than necessary. Maybe she was so upset she forgot.

The salad was unseasoned and slightly wilted, but it was much better than what Uncle Vernon would give him, and the milk more than made up for its blandness. Gobbling it down as fast as he humanely could, Harry vacated the premises of the kitchen and rushed to his cupboard just as he heard his Uncle's keys jangle and turn in the lock.

Closing the cupboard, he breathed a sigh of relief. Just in time. Settling down to sleep, he murmured himself a 'good night' and closed his eyes. It was Saturday tomorrow. He would do magic tomorrow…

 **So, a big round of applause for my amazing beta, Sable Supernova, who understood my deranged ramblings and made this into a story that can actually be read.**

 **This is actually complete, and I'm just waiting for it all to be beta'd. So... enjoy.**


	2. Chapter 2: Mistakes

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter**

#

The moment he was done with his chores – vacuuming, dusting and cleaning the dishes – Harry was off to the library. He didn't dare run for fear of someone reporting his 'delinquency' to his Aunt, but a brisk walk had him in front of the green, wooden doors within twenty minutes.

''There you are, Harry!'' Madam Salisbury clutched his arm with an iron grip and dragged him towards the back of the library. For an old lady, she sure was stronger than she looked.

Breathless and giddy, she showed him several stacks of books and what appeared to be notes taken from them. All of them, Harry noted excitedly, were about magic.

''I took the liberty of finding references and the clearest instructions I could find. It was actually mythology and books about religion that made the most sense. What you described yesterday sounds like animism, but not fully. You claim the dead leaves had no essence, but the living plant did. This means that rivers, mountains and –'' she broke off at the sight of Harry's confusion. ''Ah, forgive me. You do not understand me.''

Seeking to break down what he had sensed for Madam's understanding, Harry tensed up involuntarily at the memory of the incident. ''I tried to look for the bush,'' he told her. ''But… I don't think it was the bush I found. It was everywhere. Under me, all around. It felt alive, but not alive like me. More like… living, but not alive, if that makes sense.''

Madam Salisbury frowned to herself. Rummaging through the stack of books, she flipped through her notes with the other hand. ''In that case, animism may be exactly it. If it was as large as you claim, then it might have been the earth itself… Hmm… There's cake in the refrigerator, Harry. If you would be so kind as to bring me a slice…'' she said absentmindedly.

Opening the door Madam had pointed to, Harry gasped softly in surprise. There was a little kitchen in there, all done in shades of yellow. The cake was melting a bit – the fridge must not be working properly – but the apple slices on its top still looked fresh.

''Oh thank you, Harry dear – wait, where's your slice?'' Madam scowled at him mightily for not having a plate of his own. ''You didn't just bring me one, did you? Oh the youth of today… I remember being the greediest little goblin as a child; what happened to the innocence of childhood?'' she lamented, getting up with a groan and hobbling to the kitchenette herself, putting the teakettle on as she went.

Harry received the first taste of cake he could remember; at Madam's demand, he told her it was the best he'd ever had, which was the truth. The sponge was a bit chewy though, but the apples on top were amazing.

''So,'' he asked in-between bites, ''what do you think about my magic?''

Madam Salisbury snorted lightly. ''Complicated, child. If you won't resent me, I believe I need to see you connect to those things yourself. I simply won't understand until then, and even then I probably won't know all of the nuances.''

Harry wavered. He didn't want to do that again, it was horrible and the mere thought of feeling the monsters again make him tremble. But, if Madam wanted him to do it, then he would.

Seeing him torn over the proposition, Madam Salisbury huffed impatiently. ''I won't force you, child. I've no interest in harming you. But if you want this magic of yours to work, sacrifices need to be made. What is more important to you, your magic or your fear?''

Put that way, Harry felt so very foolish about his hesitation. Of course his magic was more important to him, of course! But… That primal fear was still present. Pressing his hands close to himself, recalling the pain he had felt, he faced Madam's curious eyes. ''I'll do it. But… do we have to do it right away?''

''Clearly not.'' Madam told him flatly. ''Besides, I would not make you connect with the grounds in the park or even my garden. Heavens no! I was thinking more along the lines of a flower pot. Small, and constricted. Restrained. That way we can see if it's the magic itself that scares you, or the size of it.''

Harry felt a weight drop off his shoulders. A bit hysterical, he giggled. ''Oh.''

''Yes, child.'' Madam drawled, taking a sip of her tea. ''Oh, indeed.''

:

Twirling her pen in her hands, Miss Rowan mulled over the impressions she got of Mrs Dursley. The woman was an intimidating one, that was for sure, and there was something deeply unsettling about the way she carried herself. But Miss Rowan didn't get the feeling that she was a woman who enjoyed cruelty.

It was the opposite she sensed, in fact, she was rather certain Mrs Dursley would never condone outright abuse, which made her fear of Mr Potter being treated harshly fall away. It didn't go away completely though, and there were niggling worries scratching at her insides.

If Mr Potter wasn't abused, then what was wrong with him?

The boy was a smart one if the results he got on his final exams were anything to go by, but he was almost criminally slothful. He didn't care about school, and he cared even less for the opinions others had of him. He rarely did his homework, and if he did do it, it was almost illegible. He refused to work with the other children during PE, and Lord forbid he socialise during lunch break. She had looked into possible bullying, but other than the occasional spat with his cousin, nothing came up.

The boy was a disaster, she concluded mournfully. Not right now, of course, but Miss Rowan was certain there was only mediocrity and failure in the boy's future.

Her favourite student, Gordon, was not nearly as smart as Mr Potter, but he tried at school and he did his best, even if his grades never reached higher than C+. He put in the time and perseverance needed to improve. Mr Potter did neither, which was a direct insult to Miss Rowan herself. The boy was basically telling her she didn't deserve to see his best and that she never would.

Something needed to be done. The problem was, she didn't know what. What was she to do to aide him, if he didn't want to be aided?

She felt the beginnings of a migraine knocking on her temples.

:

Madam Salisbury's flower pot was exactly that – a flower pot. The flower was a stunted little thing, clearly suffering from dehydration and lack of care, but it held on and, in all the rebellious stubbornness a flower could possess, cheekily waved several pink petals around. Harry ached for it, because Madam Salisbury's idea of caring for it meant that she watered it when she remembered it existed, and sometimes not even then.

''How am I…'' Harry sought advice from the woman, at a loss. ''Um, what do I do?''

Madam Salisbury put one gnarled, perfectly manicured hand on her hip and scowled. ''Your show, child.'' she barked at him. ''Do what you did before, however you did it before. And make it work, if you would.''

And then she settled down in an armchair, notebook and pencil in hand, ready to take notes.

''Yeah…''

Staring at the flower, Harry thought about the process he had used before. He had closed his eyes and focused on the bush, but apparently it didn't work because he didn't find the bush but something else. So should he do the same and hope for the best, or try something different?

Taking a deep breath in, he closed his eyes and cupped the flower pot in his hands.

How would a flower feel? It would probably be gentle, he guessed, and harmless. But this was a flower that had survived Madam Salisbury, so it would also be strong and durable. It had roots and leaves and even a blossom, and Harry wondered if it was a girl or a boy.

It took him some time, but eventually he found that awful thing again, only it was much, much smaller than before. It was tiny, he realised, and instead of overwhelming pressure there was only a soft, itsy-bitsy trickle, as if someone were trying to tickle him but not really managing to do it.

Could he make it bigger?

Curious to find out, he tugged on the little energy. However, something went horribly wrong. Instead of making the trickle faster or stronger, the little thing screeched – there was no other word for it – and burned him. His fingers convulsed and he let go of the pot, the little flower crashing onto the floor and breaking the connection.

Madam Salisbury was upon him in a heartbeat. ''Harry?! Child, look at me! Look at me!''

Harry tried to focus on her, but his muscles kept twitching and he couldn't quite manage to think straight. If his magic had been slow and limpid before, now it churned and bubbled and hissed, sloshing and overflowing and messing with his body. His stomach twisted, and, before he knew what was happening, Harry vomited on the floor, the agitation lessening.

Gulping down bile, he caught Madam Salisbury's panicked gaze. ''I… I feel better now…'' His voice sounded weak and raspy even to him.

Madam didn't relax. ''Are you ill, Harry? Do you need help? Tell me!''

He shook his head slightly, the world going out of focus again for a moment. ''No… No, I'm fine now.''

Madam pushed him into the armchair, checking over his head and hands, only letting go when colour returned to his cheeks. She turned her attention on the flower pot then, not daring to touch the spilled dirt and vomit on her floor, nor the shards of the ceramic pot.

She hadn't really believed the boy about the magic, but now… Could she truly continue to deny it when she had witnessed something like this?

''What happened, Harry?'' she asked. ''You were fine for over fifteen minutes, but then you blanched and dropped the pot. What happened?''

''I felt it. The magic. It was weak and it didn't harm me, but then I tried to pull on it and… It hurt.'' He curled up in as small a ball as he possibly could, avoiding looking at the broken flower. ''It screamed at me.''

Madam Salisbury petted his hair and hummed soothingly. She wanted to punish the idiot boy for experimenting in such a way without telling her, but now was not the time. Harry was tired and scared, and he sounded almost haunted to her ears, like a wounded animal. The child was obviously traumatised by what he had felt.

''Go to sleep, Harry.'' She told him quietly, watching like a hawk as the child nodded off. ''You need it. I'll take care of everything.''

:

The first thing she did was phone call the boy's guardians. She knew who they were, of course, who didn't? Everyone knew that the Potter brat was poor Petunia Dursley's responsibility; everyone pitied his carers.

The unpleasant woman's voice was sugary sweet when she answered, quickly shifting to anger when she heard why Madam Salisbury was calling. Madam covered up for the boy by saying she had asked him to help her, and that the child would be late to come home because of her. Apparently, the child was running errands for her. In a fit of inspiration, Madam Salisbury inquired if it was possible for the boy to come over every day to lend her a hand. She was very old, after all, and needed all the help she could get. And the child could even stay over at times; she certainly wouldn't mind!

Mrs Dursley agreed, eager to be rid of her nephew and get in the good graces of the respected old librarian in one fell swoop, and so Madam Salisbury got the dubious pleasure of being responsible for Harry Potter every afternoon from three to seven o'clock.

Putting the phone down, Madam Salisbury turned to the mess on her floor. She wrinkled her nose at it: the combined smell of dirt and vomit wasn't the least bit pleasant. Unwilling to actually come in contact with it, she swept the floor and mopped up the puke, tying a tight knot on the bag she put the litter in. She then cleaned the floor with the strongest chemicals she had, disinfecting it for good measure.

Harry was still sleeping, but he would need to eat soon. She didn't trust herself to cook though: her senses of smell and sight were failing, and she didn't want to accidentally burn down anything. Usually she had a girl from the care centre for the elderly bring her food every day, but today she had called in to tell them not to come. She hadn't wanted them to see Harry doing magic, but was now regretting it. Heavens know she was awful at cooking.

Well, she could try something simple and hope for the best.

:

When Harry opened his eyes, he wondered groggily why it felt as if something was wrong. Then he registered the scent of burning food, and shot to his feet. Had he dozed off while making dinner again? He hoped not. Uncle Vernon would have his hide for real this time if he had caused a fire in the kitchen again.

''Fiddle sticks! Why won't you work, you nasty thing, huh? By the Heavens – Harry!'' Madam Salisbury snapped when she noticed him. ''What are you doing here? You're meant to be resting!''

''But, isn't that…'' Harry pointed at the stove, where a pot was emitting dark smoke, ''burning?''

''Well, yes.'' Madam Salisbury told him, looking for all the world as if he were the silly one. ''Now off with you.'' She shooed him away. ''I'll take care of it. And call for them to deliver us something warm. Use the number by the phone; it's the second one down.''

:

''I should think it's time to go over our theses now.'' Madam told him once they were done with their dinner.

Harry hummed in agreement, eager to understand his magic. But before that… ''Why do you believe in my magic?'' he asked curiously.

Madam smiled at him thinly. ''I didn't at the start.'' She confessed. ''But just now… light danced across the skin of your hands, boy, and your hair stood up as if electrified. Even if it is not magic you can access, it is something, and I promised to help you with it. I keep my promises.''

Harry looked down, into the murky depths of his tea. His hands tremored, and he tightened his grip on the teacup. His sleep had not been restful. ''I might be evil.'' He told Madam quietly, only now remembering his previous worries. ''Magic… In all the books they say that magic is evil. And… Equal exchange… What if I'm doing horrible things without even knowing it?''

''Then you cannot blame yourself.'' Madam Salisbury took his chin in her hand and forcibly made him look in her eyes, which blazed with an inner light. ''If you are doing things that harm others… Without knowing it… You cannot blame yourself for things you don't know are happening. What matters is this: are you willing to fight for your magic? Are you strong enough to face what magic might bring you?''

Harry gulped. Is that what was being asked of him? To go on even if he was hurting others? Was magic worth that kind of price? Perhaps that wasn't the important part. Maybe, what really mattered was if he was willing to _pay_ that price. I don't want to, he wished to say. He didn't want to harm others. But could he give his magic up? Yes, he probably could. However, did he want to?

''Yes,'' he said firmly, coming to a decision. ''I can take it. I'll pay that price.''

Madam Salisbury smiled at him, for real this time. Harry blinked in surprise at the sheer warmth and kindness of the expression. He hadn't known Madam's face could look like that, as used to as he was to her usual scowl.

''Good. But I must tell you that I doubt magic works like that.'' She stirred a dollop of cream in her tea, ignoring his shock at her proclamation. ''If I were to guess, I would say you draw your magic from within yourself, which would mean that anyone could learn magic with the proper teaching, or that you draw it from the nature; nature being, in this case, the life force of living beings such as the flower. The first would likely exhaust you far sooner, running the risk of killing you if you try to take too much. And in the case of the second, nature resists you violently, as we have already tasted on our own skin. Both are hard, and both are unsafe.''

''Then, which is the better option? Which is the truth?''

''I've no bloody idea whatsoever.'' Madam told him cheerfully. ''But we can work it out, can't we?''

:

A week later, Harry found himself holding a maths test, an angry, red F written at the end of the page, along with the words ''Meet me after class, please.''

Harry was utterly stunned at the grade. His marks in school had never been anything to brag about, but he never got anything under a D. An F was… he wanted to cry. How could he have got such a low grade? Sure, he hadn't been that focused on school lately, but it hadn't been so serious that he would receive an F.

Miss Rowan's kindly gaze felt like a guillotine waiting to fall on him. ''Mr Potter… Do you mind if I call you Harry?''

He shook his head. Who cared what Miss Rowan called him – he got an F!

''Harry, please look at me.'' Miss Rowan told him softly. ''I understand that you're upset, frankly, I am, too. But this is not the end of the world, Harry. A bad grade can be corrected, though I doubt you can fix your final mark this late into the school year. But if we start working on this now, Harry, there is no way for you to fail your class. You will pass your exams like all other kids. Do you understand that?''

Harry nodded dully. ''I… What will I need to do?''

Miss Rowan hummed approvingly. ''For one, I'll be asking you to join the supplementary classes I hold on Fridays. We'll go over the basics again, patch up whatever holes you might have, and then focus on the things we've covered in class so far. It's nothing much, Harry, not hard at all, but I'm certain it will make a world of difference.''

She gave him several papers to fill out, along with a paper for Aunt Petunia to sign. Harry swallowed back his tears. There was no use in crying over spilt milk, Madam always said, and all he could do now was fix this.

''I'm sorry, Miss Rowan.'' He told her thickly. ''I didn't mean to, honest!''

''I know you didn't, Harry.'' The teacher comforted. ''Look at the bright side of this: you can ask me any questions you want, with no one to make you feel embarrassed, even if it's not math related, and I'll answer them for you. If you feel you need any help in anything else, you can ask me and we'll work out a time to go over it, too. You're a smart boy, Harry. You made a mistake, and I'm sure you won't make it again.''

:

Aunt Petunia's bipolar shifting from fury to glee and back again was nothing when compared to Madam's unadulterated, seething rage. She yelled so loudly the library shook and dust fell from the ceiling, and when she stopped yelling she spoke so quietly Harry had to strain his ears to hear her, which was even scarier.

Finally, her anger broke.

''Why didn't you tell me you had trouble in class, you blasted child?'' she asked tiredly, rubbing her temples. ''I own a library, I have books, I could have done something. An F is nothing to sneer at, Harry. You take your O-levels in a few years, you need to know these things. Why didn't you tell me?''

''I didn't know!'' Harry wailed, dismayed to have disappointed Madam. ''I didn't, I swear! I was just so busy with magic and – and I just forgot about it!''

It was true that he had been busy with magic: he and Madam had been figuring out his ability whenever they had time, and while they had learned some incredible things about it, they also forgot about the fact that Harry was a pupil and had school to worry about. Though, he wouldn't really be taking the O-levels…

Madam sighed and drained her teacup, setting it down with a loud chink. ''You have remedial classes, do you not?'' When Harry hastily confirmed this, she continued. ''We'll be putting magic on hold for now, Harry. Your school is more important. I'll be helping you with your homework, and, well, this is a library. You'll start reading some of these books as a way to help you with your English, and I'll start teaching you either French or Italian, whichever you choose. Foreign languages are all the rage now…''

Harry wiped his cheeks of tears. ''And… When will we do magic again?''

''In the summer,'' Madam said sternly, ''when you don't have school. Until then… School takes precedence.''

:

Miss Rowan had to admit that something had changed with Mr Potter. The boy threw himself in his studies with all the bull-headed drive of a rhinoceros, a stark difference from the daydreaming child who had caused her such stress. It was a nice change, and if all it took was an F to motivate him… well. Maybe she should start giving out Fs to some other students of hers. Lord knows they could use the incentive.

She had worried how Gordon might react to Mr Potter's presence, and she hadn't been wrong in her fears. Gordon had approached her after the first lesson they'd shared, asking to move their lessons to another day. For whatever reason, he disliked spending time with Harry. Harry had said nothing when Gordon didn't show up for their second lesson, and Miss Rowan didn't bring it up. No need to rub the boy's face in it.

''Do you understand it now, Harry?'' she asked.

''I think so… But why is it like that?'' he looked at her seriously. ''I mean, why is it always like that? Why doesn't the formula change? The measures of the sides are always different.''

''Well, the right angle triangle is always the same in its basis. It's just the size of its sides that changes. But if you want to make the hypotenuse longer while keeping the angle right, then you also have to make the other two sides longer.'' She explained happily. It always pleased her when children asked questions. ''Keeping that in mind, can you see now why the formula stays the same?''

Harry nodded excitedly, understanding lighting in his eyes. In his haste to solve the problem he kicked the pencil case off the table. ''Oh, sorry, Miss Rowan!'' he apologised, taking it back when she lifted it off the floor and returned it to him. He quickly went back to scribbling the solution to the problem.

He was a nice kid, she sighed. Such a lovely child. She didn't know if it was the F, the nearing of the summer holidays or just growing up, but Harry Potter had changed for the better.

:

Opening the door to the library, Harry called out a greeting to Madam Salisbury. ''Ciao, Signora Salisbury!''

''Ciao, Harry. Cos'hai fatto a scuola oggi?''

Wrinkling his nose in concentration, Harry formulated his reply as quickly as he could, explaining how he did in school. It always confused him when Madam spoke so quickly. ''Ho studiato matematica con I'insegnante. Mi ha detto che sono molte bene. Abbiamo cominciati una lezione nouva di... How do you say geography, Madam?''

Madam Salisbury took her nose out of her book. ''It's 'geografia', Harry.''

Harry put his school bag away and nodded to show he had heard her. ''Ah, right. Um… Abbiamo cominciati una lezione nuova di geografia. Was that right?''

Madam Salisbury arched a brow at him. ''The grammar was passable. The accent was atrocious. Italians will laugh at you if they ever hear you mangle their language like that.''

Harry flushed bright red. ''Well I probably won't ever go to Italy, so there!''

''You're an awful little boy, did you know that?'' Madam commented callously. ''Have you been practicing your manners?'' before Harry could answer, she continued. ''You have lunch in the fridge, do reheat it before you eat it. We don't want a repeat of that illness again.''

Scowling at the old lady, Harry stomped away into the kitchen. His behaviour was a far cry from the meek and polite little boy he had been before meeting Madam, but basically living with Madam for about half a year would cure anyone of any unnecessary politeness. For all that she preached manners, Madam Salisbury was a dragon at heart and didn't respect anyone who bowed their neck to others.

Making sure to reheat the leftovers – he had tested on his own skin what cold food could do, and he still got the shivers when he recalled his week-long bout of vomiting – Harry reached out to nudge the energy dozing inside of the food, speeding up the heating process.

That was one of the things he and Madam had realised in their time spent investigating magic. He wasn't accessing the life force of things, nor anything as arcane as souls or essences. No, what he was doing was manipulating the energy stored within all things, both living and not.

He couldn't manipulate it too much though, because it tired him out and he ran the risk of overdosing, so to speak, on energy, which always left him feeling loopy and tired. Also, there was the ever present fear of accidentally causing an explosion that would kill both him, Madam, and everybody else. Madam had restricted his use of magic because of this, and so now he was only allowed to use it for the little things, like reheating food, cleaning the books or watering the plants, and he was also forbidden from doing anything too big or noticeable. Madam had cited security reasons for this rule.

However, his bad grade had stopped any further progress in their research. Harry was glad that summer was only a week away; he wanted to get his fingers in the jar of magic as soon as possible.

:

''Harry, come here for a minute.''

Harry put down the watering can with a low sigh; Madam didn't care about her garden and viewed his obsession with keeping the plants alive with something akin to incredulity. She was of the opinion that, if they couldn't survive without her constant fretting, they were weaklings and would wither no matter what she did. Harry didn't share the same idea.

He entered the library, not closing the door behind his as it was sweltering hot, and went to Madam. ''Yes? What is it?''

Madam waved him forward, tapping on the book she was reading. ''I was thinking we could start your magic training again,'' she told him.

Harry perked up, excitement and ecstasy bubbling up as he bounced on his feet for a moment. He had begun to think they would never get around to it. ''Really?! Thank you so much, Madam! When can we start?''

''Mm.'' Madam hummed. ''Your teacher only said good things about you when I asked. She was also glad to know you've taken up a foreign language. I was thinking you deserved a prize. You did work hard, after all.''

Harry huffed impatiently. He had wanted to know when, not why.

Sensing his eagerness, Madam craftily went on. ''Tomorrow, if you want. I have an idea we might try out. It could be… entertaining.''

#

 **Once again, applause for my beta, Sable Supernova, who puts so much work into this... She deserves so much better than having to put up with my antics.**

 **And to my reviewer, yes, I am. I was taught that 'phantasy' is a literature genre, while 'fantasy' is a product of one's imagination.**


	3. Chapter 3: the Starting Line

**Disclaimer: I do now own Harry Potter**

 **So, unless you haven't been reading, this is an AU. Meaning, it deviates from Canon. This is visible in this chapter, which is coincidentally also the last chapter.**

#

Madam's ideas of entertainment tended to include Harry being tricked or hoodwinked in some way, so he was naturally wary of her idea for his training. However, glee overweighed the suspicion, though he knew it wasn't wise to go in wide-eyed and trusting.

In theory, it seemed like a good way to practice fine control, which was exactly what Harry needed. He still had the habit of accidentally making things shatter or die if he didn't concentrate on what he was trying to do completely. This was actually the reason why Madam forbade him from ever changing the light bulbs with magic again: he kept making them fizzle out or explode.

The premise of the exercise was this: he was to manipulate the air around a sheet of paper to make the paper bend or crinkle. Not the paper itself, mind you, but the air. Madam had told him it should be a fairly simple thing to do, and a fairly safe one, too. He could hardly blow up the air, after all. Sadly, it didn't go nearly as easily as he thought it would.

For one, he didn't have the faintest clue how to go about dealing with an element such as air. He couldn't conceptualise it, and therefore he couldn't do it. Attempting to blindly find it like he had found the network of roots – that was what the terrifying monster underground had been – resulted in utter failure and all he accomplished was to tear the paper to pieces.

It was such a disappointing and disheartening experience.

Madam had a way to solve it of course, and this is where Harry's day went from bad to worse. Her solution was for him to understand air, which meant that she took a hairdryer and merrily started blowing it in his face, telling him all the while to focus on the air currents. All Harry could focus on were the tears of discomfort forming in his eyes, along with an overwhelming urge to sneeze.

The next thing they tried was fanning him. It went better than with the hairdryer, though Madam's arm went numb soon after from all the fanning she was doing. Harry still didn't understand how to control the air.

When he argued that it made no sense to even try to do it, because he couldn't connect with something dead, Madam merely thwacked him with her notes. He could do it if he tried – they had already proven the theory of only being able to manipulate living things when Harry first succeeded in lighting a candle in a fit of rage. It was just his impatience and frustration that were impeding him.

By the time night started to fall, Harry was ready to cry. There had still been no progress in the slightest, unless, of course, one counted charging the paper by mistake and destroying it as progress. He had never, not even when he was agonising over the blasted roots, been so vexed over something. That it was his magic making him feel like that, when it was usually a source of joy and peace, was only more disturbing to the messy-haired boy.

Instead of staying over and sleeping in the guest bedroom of Madam's apartment – which was on the floor above the library – he went to Number 4. Aunt Petunia's displeasure was keenly felt, but he just couldn't stay at Madam's place any longer.

:

Harry went back to the library the following day, determined to make the exercise work. Aunt Petunia had been glad to have him gone from her house; not having to worry about her nephew while simultaneously knowing he was being useful to someone out there had spoiled her, and she almost wished Madam Salisbury would ask for the boy to move in with her.

Madam Salisbury, for her part, felt guilty for the way she had treated Harry. The child had done his best and she had outright told him it wasn't enough, not even bothering to say it kindly.

When Harry entered the library, the first thing she did was apologise. At times it felt like she had apologised more in the time since she had met the boy than in the rest of her life. What that said about her, she didn't know, but she liked having the child around, even if he did bring the headache of magic with him.

''Madam Salisbury…'' Harry called out after putting away his school bag, not seeing the woman in her usual spot by the windows, nor where the bookshelves were. Where did she go? She was right there a minute before! ''Madam Salisbury, where are you?''

''The garden, boy.'' Came her voice, as grumpy as ever. ''Where do you think I am? And get me my notes!''

With a low sigh that was far more resigned than it should be, Harry snapped up the stack of papers and slipped through the backdoor into the little jungle Madam claimed had once been a rose garden.

''Look at them, child!'' she told him triumphantly, gesturing at the row of small, paper windmills that now decorated her lawn. ''Aren't they simply marvellous?''

''They're toy windmills, Madam.'' He answered her dubiously. ''What do you need them for?''

''Foolish child,'' she groused, accepting her notes. ''They're for your training. You need to understand the air, do you not? Well, what better way that through a windmill? And I can't bloody well get a real windmill, can I? Where would I put it? The police would have a fit if I got a real one. Not to mention the neighbours…''

''Oh!'' Harry exclaimed, finally understanding what Madam planned to do.

''Yes, yes, you know what to do.'' Grabbing her notes and promptly beginning to put down the date and location, Madam motioned him to start. ''Go on then! Dazzle me!''

''Right…''

Closing his eyes, Harry focused on the little windmills. He couldn't reach out for the air by himself, but he could use a medium, the medium being, in this case, the windmill. He had learned his lesson and didn't give in to the urge to play with the windmill, extending his awareness from the windmill to the space its wings spun through. It was harder than he thought it would be, but not nearly as hard as the paper exercise had been.

And… there.

A trickle of something, an almost not-there something, slipping through his fingers like a dream only half-remembered, and he hurriedly clutched as many of the gossamer strands as he could. It was woefully little, but it was enough.

Harry got his first taste of how the air felt, and it was glorious. Opening his eyes and letting go of the connection, he swayed a tad. Madam forced a glass of orange juice down his throat right away, because he actually appeared like he was slightly drunk.

''Did you do it?'' she asked him, long ago cured of panicking whenever he seemed a little out of it.

Harry dipped his chin in response, giggling quietly. ''It was like… like not being real. It feels like…'' scrunching up his nose, he tried to focus his thoughts and describe the sensation correctly. ''It felt like… It was like the word escapism. I – I don't know how to describe it. Just… not real, not there, but more there than anything else I've ever… I don't know.'' He trailed off, gazing longingly into the distance. As much as he wanted to, he knew better than to try it again without getting Madam's stamp of approval.

''Do you think you would be able to do the paper exercise now?'' she inquired, scribbling down another note worthy of remembering later on.

Harry thought it over quickly, straightening from the slouch he had subconsciously fallen into. ''I think so… I probably could. I know what to search for now.''

''Try it then.''

Taking the offered paper and observing that wasn't a clean sheet, but one Madam had used for her note-taking, Harry tried to fold it. It didn't really work out. He had clearly used too much force, because the paper had bunched up and the air had made several dozen thin, shallow cuts in the skin of his hands, over his fingers and palms and all the way up to his elbows. How had he managed to do that?

:

With his arms wrapped up in bandages and unable to use his fingers because of this, Harry couldn't do any of the things he usually did, not even reading Madam's books. Instead, he got to practice his Italian.

Italian had been something of a novelty to him in the beginning, and he had quickly fallen in love with the language when he saw how easy it was to learn it. But now he was slowly coming to see that it had only been due to Madam's simple way of teaching that he had found it easy. His accent had been atrocious from the start, but his grammar had been passable. But now, even grammar was getting difficult: he simply could not differentiate between all the tenses. And as irritated as he was, he was even starting to make mistakes in the tenses he had previously known perfectly well.

Madam didn't see the problem in this. Her solution was to merely continue doing as she had – talking and talking and filling his head up with Italian, her mouth expelling words so fast they slurred together. Harry didn't understand: how could he learn if he didn't know what was being said? How was he to remember words with meanings he didn't know?

Madam was veritably ruthless with the way she taught him; she considered complete submersion to be the only way to learn a language, and if that submersion left him baffled and demoralised, well... If he overcame his shortcomings, then it was the best way possible. If he failed and gave up, then he didn't deserve to learn it in the first place. She took the opportunity created by his wounded hands to commence with this training method gleefully. Madam was an awful teacher.

Still, he grudgingly admitted he did improve. His vocabulary was laughably limited and his grammar lacked any form of coherent syntax, but at least he was adapting to the speed of speech and – though he wished it weren't happening, so that he could be angry at Madam some more – he was beginning to understand what was being said without translating the words to English in his head.

…Perhaps Madam wasn't so bad at teaching… Maybe she was just making it more difficult. Harry could deal with it.

:

The next time he tried using air magic, it was two weeks later and summer was doing its utmost to roast him alive. Madam kept grumbling about global warming, but Harry was of the opinion that it was punishment for his consistent bad grades throughout the school year.

Again, he overpowered the air and the paper he was trying to fold was completely shredded. He earned himself many more cuts and gashes as he forged on in his training despite Madam's ever more vocal protests. She disciplined him by making him read books, and not the interesting ones.

Madam had theorised that perhaps he wasn't cutting things, but tearing them. If he had somehow made the wind move fast enough, then the air should have been able to tear his skin and clothes. It would also explain why the edges to the wounds were so ragged.

However, by the end of July he had managed to finally fold a sheet of paper, even if it was done sloppily. He did it just in time for his birthday, and that made the success twice more victorious. Madam wasn't impressed by his accomplishment. She went on to make him fold papers for the rest of the summer, and then well into autumn. By the time winter rolled around, he was more than capable of making various origami shapes with only the help of his magic and the air. Harry still wished she wasn't as pedantic as she was.

His birthday had been celebrated though, even if not very glamorously, and there had been Madam with a present – another book – and the girl from the Care Centre, who had brought a small cake for Madam's 'nephew'. Harry still didn't know her name, but he was rather convinced it started with an 'A'. Alice, perhaps, or maybe Amanda.

Miss Rowan was still there when he went up a year, and she seemed inordinately proud with his grades, which had stabilised at around a C, or B- if he was lucky. The Dursleys were more willing than ever to continue to perpetually ignore his existence, though Aunt Petunia did put in an effort every now and then and made him lunch for school.

Life was good, for the most part.

:

The coming of the spring always excited Harry, though he never knew exactly why. It wasn't something he could explain away with words, nor accurately describe by other means. Madam loved spring because she claimed it brought the promise of new life and new beginnings, but for Harry this wasn't it.

The closest he ever came to unravelling his fascination with the season was in art class at school, when he had accidentally spilled green water colours all over his paper. There was something hypnotising about the green swirls and their lazy curls, contrasted sharply against the white of the paper in some places and almost disappearing into the whiteness of it in others. He took the paper with him and Madam had framed it, but they mostly kept it out of sight, seeing as Harry tended to stare at it dazedly if it entered his line of vision.

The roots beneath him started to… he wasn't sure. 'Gain consciousness' would probably be horrifically incorrect, but that was what it felt like to Harry. He still disliked connecting to the grounds and much preferred the fleeting intangibleness of the wind, but he understood the reasons Madam never let him stop doing it.

Madam valued information above all else – she was a librarian, after all – and she claimed that there were many things to be learned through the root network. Harry agreed with her, but he didn't see why the consistency of the earth or the amount of rocks in the ground were important. Nor did he understand the need to keep whispering about the moisture in the earth, but he supposed that water was the most important thing in the life of a root. Survival and all that.

And then the roots started talking to him.

It seems silly when said like that, since the roots had been speaking for as long as Harry knew of them, but never had they actually talked to him directly, asking him questions. Well, it was more of a request to water them, but the point still stood. Harry had learned that the root was something akin to the brain of the plant and that this brain was far from stupid, but the fact that they talked still frightened him out of his wits.

Madam took this development in stride; she commanded him to get the watering can and oblige the poor plants. That the plants said only mean things about her didn't bother her one bit.

In the years to come, Harry would thank whatever god existed and watched over him, because the fact that he could speak to plants would save his life more than once. But for now, he just grumbled about being saddled with more chores (Madam ordered him to water the trees in Little Whinging daily – all the trees) and got on with it. Not like Madam would change her mind about it.

:

''Why do you let me stay here, Madam?''

Madam Salisbury lifted her eyes from the pages of her favourite book and blinked at the boy she had come to view as a grandson in the time since she had met him. ''Pardon me?''

Harry, the unpredictable little brat, had stopped dusting the library and was giving her a curious look. ''Why do you let me stay, Madam? I mean, I'm more trouble than I'm worth, what with all the magic and accidents and the damage I cause.''

It was the truth, Madam knew that well enough. Just the day before the child had broken all her windows while playing with the wind, when she had told him hundreds of times he was forbidden from doing magic inside the house unless she gave her express permission. But there was something about the way the boy said it, about the formulation of the sentence that rubbed her the wrong way.

She slipped a ribbon to mark the page she was at and closed the book, placing it on the coffee table with a nearly silent thud. ''Why wouldn't I let you stay, child?'' she asked his shrewdly. ''You are no trouble at all, and you even help me get things done around here.''

Harry folded his hands and lowered his voice. ''Sometimes, Madam, you look at me… and… I don't think it's me you see. You seem… sad… whenever that happens. I just… I wondered why you let me stay if I make you sad.''

The boy looked like he expected to be kicked, but Madam was far too preoccupied by his words to notice his emotional state. She hadn't realised the child had noticed her occasional reminiscence. ''I am sorry if I appear like that, Harry. You don't make me sad, quite the opposite… You shouldn't worry about such things.''

Harry knew it was wrong to press Madam, but he wanted to know. Madam always seemed so different when she got that glint in her eyes, and he wanted to understand it. ''Madam, I'd really like to know.''

Madam looked at him blankly for a minute, so long that he almost wanted to leave and forget he had ever asked about this, but then she unexpectedly smiled, looking both baffled and amused. ''He would have said the same thing,'' she said, and piqued Harry's interest.

''Who?''

''My husband, of course.''

Madam snickered at his obvious surprise, and Harry flushed. It was hard to imagine Madam ever having been married, especially so since she didn't wear any ring. Then he realised why the husband wouldn't be there and immediately felt a cold stone drop in his stomach like lead.

''He died a long time ago, child.'' Madam comforted, aware of his dismay. ''You shouldn't worry about him.''

:

Before he knew it, Harry was swept up in the excitement that came with understanding magic. Well, understanding was a bit too strong of a word, but he was starting to have instinctual reactions when it came to magic. It was as if he had suddenly grasped what he had previously been struggling with, like something had just clicked in his mind. He found himself able to predict what could and what couldn't be done with his current level of control and power.

The root network's only contribution to his training was to remind him if they needed watering and to zap him to the bones if he soaked the ground too much. They hated drowning in their precious water, apparently. He was beginning to dislike the needy plants, because while he had stopped fearing the magic they emitted, he still resented their callous treatment. Madam kept snorting at him and saying how they weren't human – weren't even animals, really – and wouldn't care for him and his frailty.

But the wind – oh, the wind. The air was everything Harry wanted, and he was slowly abandoning the use of magic in other fields. He hadn't used his magic for anything other than air manipulation for months. Not even the root network could tempt him to do much more than listen to their complaints of the day. Ever since he had succeeded in folding paper he had weaned himself off using magic for things like cleaning, cooking and other 'lesser' uses.

He could use the air to affect his surroundings, but only ever on a large scale. His control was nowhere near fine enough to try anything more delicate than paper folding, but that was alright. Sometimes he played at having telekinesis, pretending to be a superhero. He had wanted to try using the blades the air sometimes turned into as a weapon, but Madam had strictly forbidden such an endeavour. It was too destructive for her tastes, and too dangerous for him to use.

But more than he wanted a weapon, Harry wanted to fly. That was his greatest wish, and even though cuts and exhaustion had become a normal state of being to him in his time spent exercising magic, he was willing to do anything to fly. The wind had woken up something in him that day with the windmills, a longing that went deeper than his heart, and Harry knew he would never rest at peace until he could take to the skies, aided only by his magic.

:

''Madam, this is for you.''

Madam startled and dropped the book she was holding; in the time since Harry had known her, her senses had dulled so much that it was hard for her to read anymore. It was a harsh blow to the librarian who lived for books and knowledge. Harry read to her sometimes, of course, but it was not the same, and he was busy with magic anyway.

It felt at times that Madam was pulling away from him, getting less and less involved with his life. Where before she had been eager and enthusiastic about magic, since that first time Harry had cut up his hands she had been distancing herself. Perhaps she was afraid, though Harry doubted this, but she was still there when he needed her, still there for his Italian lessons. That was enough.

''What is it, boy?'' she snapped, ''I don't have the time for –''

''It's a book.'' He cut her off. ''I… It's about magic, I made it from your notes.'' Suddenly shy, he gently laid the book on the counter where Madam awaited her customers – not that many people came to the library in the first place – and looked at the floor. ''I thought you might want a book of your own.''

Sneaking a look at his mentor, the woman he even considered his family, Harry tried to read her stony expression.

Smoothing out the wrinkle in the book's wrapping, Madam started speaking, ever so carefully, tasting all the words out before allowing them to come out. ''Do you know why I became a librarian, Harry?''

''No, Madam.'' He told her cautiously. ''You never said.''

''It's because I didn't want to experience life except through books.'' She said, only a hint of bitterness colouring her tone. ''My husband… I never married him, though I call him my husband. He died a long time ago, in Italy. It was the War… the Germans… that took him. He was like you, adored the air. He was a pilot. After he died, I didn't want to get hurt anymore. I thought I would never hurt again if I had all the knowledge in the world, and so I retreated to a dusty library, amongst books, where there was no living person who could hurt me.''

She glanced at him, and there was a strange shine to her face.

''Madam?'' Harry asked, taking several steps backwards. ''You don't have to tell me –''

''For forty years I was alone,'' Madam continued ruthlessly, ''but I was not lonely. At least, I didn't think I was. And then a little brat turned up out of nowhere, scuffed up shoes and as skinny as a reed, asking about magic, and… I realised I might have been lonely after all.'' Opening the book, which was written in Harry's best handwriting and bound in cardboard, she smiled. ''I haven't believed in magic ever since Alfred left me. I still don't. But I believe in you, child, and that is an improvement.''

And then Harry realised something. In all the time he had spent with Madam, he had never learnt her first name. It just wasn't something that mattered – Madam Salisbury was and always would be Madam Salisbury – but now he thought it was selfish.

''Madam…'' he tried to ask, ''would you mind telling me your name?''

She smirked at him, the expression tugging at her wrinkled face. ''I thought you'd never ask, boy. It's Primrose, though no one has called me by that name in years. If you want, you can call me Arthur, but never Arty.''

Madam wasn't suited to the name Primrose in the least, and Harry wondered how deluded her parents must have been to give her such a girly, meek name. Arthur was better, but…

''Why Arthur? That's a boy's name.''

Madam shrugged, carding her fingers through her hair wryly. ''Alfred liked to call me that. Said I could give King Arthur himself a run for his money.''

Harry could see that. The sudden image the thought gave birth to – Madam, wearing shiny armour, with her silver hair whipping in the wind, challenging a deeply confused and intimidated King Arthur to a duel – made him laugh, and his giggles echoed in the library.

The shadows summoned by Madam's story dispersed, leaving behind the usual atmosphere consisting of Madam's exasperation, Harry's mischief and the smell of old books.

''Go away, child.'' Madam waved him off, ''I have enough on my plate without you there to watch out for.''

:

The visit to the Zoo for Dudley's birthday was an eventful trip.

Harry wasn't even supposed to go, but Madam was feeling ill that day and couldn't take him in. Harry had wanted to stay with her – her more and more frequent bouts of weakness and dizzy spells worried him greatly – but she had shooed him out, claiming he was the source of her headaches and that she wouldn't recover with him there.

Mrs Fig was also feeling under the weather. Harry had heard something about a broken leg, but he didn't spend enough time with her to know for sure. She had staunchly refused to take him, despite all his Aunt's protests.

So he got to go to the Zoo. It was interesting, certainly, and he even got Dudley's ice cream when his cousin demanded a bigger one. He saw lions sunbathing and a petting zoo with goats and a pony, and he touched a live chicken. But the most interesting part of the trip happened in the Reptile House.

The Reptile House was dark and dry, almost cold. The various snakes and lizards were showcased in big niches in the wall, lighted up from the inside. Dudley wasted no time in finding the biggest snake there, an enormous boa constrictor that seemed to have more interest in sleeping than paying attention to all the over-excited children that kept knocking on its glass.

Harry was perfectly content with the visit so far, and he even held hopes that all would end well, but then the impossible happened. Again.

The snake talked.

Harry wasn't even startled by its ability of speech – apparently everything talked, from the plants to the winds to the snakes – but rather by the fact that it spoke in an intelligent, understandable way. Most of the beings that talked to him were very simplistic and didn't care much for chatting. It was all about the water with them, or the movement. The snake, though, greeted him like a human would.

''You can talk?'' he asked. ''Really talk?''

The boa nodded its head lazily. ''Well, yessss. Why wouldn't I?''

Harry hastily backtracked. ''Oh, no reason. Um, it says here you're from Brazil. Was it nice there?''

The snake motioned its tail and Harry checked the plate again. 'This specimen was bred in captivity,' it said.

''I'm sorry, I didn't look.'' He apologised, and then, because all those times Madam sighed over his complete incompetency when it came to socialising and functioning in public, he continued. ''Do you wish you were ever there?''

The snake gave him a long look, and then sighed. Humans were getting odder and odder the more time passed, and it was all far too much work for a snake to keep up with. The boa coiled up and tried to pretend Harry wasn't there.

''I'm sorry,'' Harry apologised again, but the snake was firmly asleep.

:

Harry had expected his eleventh birthday to come and go, spent with Madam and later on with Miss Rowan, with Aunt Petunia's grudging acknowledgment shown in the lack of chores, but ultimately it was supposed to be a day like any other.

His life was never meant to fall apart on his birthday.

But it did, and all because of a strange letter written on real parchment in emerald green ink. It was tacky and presumptious, and undeniably foreboding.

The second she saw it, Aunt Petunia threw a fit. She kept her mouth shut while Dudley and Uncle Vernon were there, yes, but the second they were gone she was screaming at him. Harry didn't quite understand everything she had told him, but he understood enough.

She was throwing him out.

He was mostly upset over the fact that he wasn't upset, and this was… strange. Harry wasn't in the habit of worrying about people. He didn't even worry much about Madam despite her illness, but hadn't ever truly noticed his… apathy… if it could be called that.

He went to the library, seeking out the comforting presence of Madam, but she wasn't there. Oh, right. She was at the hospital, having her check-ups done.

But more than the loss of his home, he chewed over the contents of the letter. Aunt Petunia had shredded it in the blender, but he could recall what it had said more or less clearly. It claimed him as a wizard, and invited him to a wizard school.

Did that mean there were others who used magic like him? Well, obviously there were, but would they be like him? Using magic to control the air? Would they like him? Not many people did, they found him disconcerting and they shied away from him. Harry wondered if he would have friends if he went to this school for wizards. He had never had friends before…

:

When Minerva McGonagall came to the residence of one Harry James Potter, she was surprised. Firstly because it wasn't Privet Drive Number 4, and secondly because it was a library. That should have been her clues that she would often find herself surprised when it came to Mr Potter.

Instead, she knocked on the green door, and waited.

No one answered.

She knocked again, this time more loudly, and waited. No one opened the door, but a voice did call out for her to let herself in.

Entering the library she noted that it was rather messy inside, with more books lying around in heaps and stacks than placed on the bookshelves. However, there was no dust nor grime. She followed the voices through another door and into a garden; a lovely slice of green heaven, with thick grass and a tall tree casting shadows over a small bench. Minerva's lips twitched a bit when she saw several rows of miniature windmills decorating the lawn.

There was a very old woman sitting on the bench and listening as a boy, presumably Mr Potter, read her a book of poems aloud.

''Madam, Mr Potter.'' She greeted. ''I am Minerva McGonagall, a professor from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I'm here to explain some things…''

:

 **Once again, a round of salutations for my beautiful Beta, Sable Supernova. She really outdid herself with this chapter.**

 **I consider this story finished. It was meant to be a oneshot, but it grew much too big, so I broke it up. There will probably be sequels soon. I have school exams right now (school's ending... Don't know if I should be happy or horrified) but over the summer...**

 **So, yeah. Look out for the sequel.**


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